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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26762701">Ataraxia</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_psychso/pseuds/Anecdoche'>Anecdoche (so_psychso)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>self indulgent mechs oneshots [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Mechanisms (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Dacryphilia, Dom/sub, Forced Orgasm, Frottage, M/M, Multi, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, i guess???? idk what happened here</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:41:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26762701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_psychso/pseuds/Anecdoche</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>These are promises kept in the palms that hold him, hurt him, guide him, soothe him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Drumbot Brian/Gunpowder Tim, Drumbot Brian/Jonny d'Ville, Drumbot Brian/Jonny d'Ville/Gunpowder Tim, Jonny d'Ville/Gunpowder Tim</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>self indulgent mechs oneshots [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ataraxia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>just thinking some Tim thoughts as per (this got wayyy sappier than intended, not sure i like it, seems a bit ooc, but w/e, it's 1:30 am, and we are just smacking out a bit of projection gaydies and bottoms)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tears don’t come easy, never have for him. Not when his grief ripped him halfway to death and darkness, his would-be cenotaph in rubble, in orbit around his world gone to tatters. Not when cruel hands and a fanged murmur tore him back the other way, spitting clinical lights and sinister instruments into steel and wire scleras.</p><p> </p><p>Not when he burns a planet for fun alongside his mates. Not when shrapnel makes more passes through his circulatory system than blood.</p><p> </p><p>And especially not now, kicked to his knees by Jonny’s steel caps and that ever so disappointed smile on Brian’s face. </p><p> </p><p>“Really, love, it would make this so much easier if you’d just cooperate.”</p><p> </p><p>Except, <em> really</em>, he’s done nothing not to cooperate at all. These are just the parameters of the scene, all neatly and previously compiled in compliance between the three of them. Insofar as they actually plan shit like this, the more tedious actuality being they, Brian and Jonny, have grown fed up with whatever moping fit Tim’s lapsed into indulging, and so have seen fit to rectify it.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe that’s what they mean by cooperate, though Tim’s of little desire to care, his worries relegated to the single point of here-and-now, with Jonny’s hands yanking his hair by the roots, and Brian’s knees bracketing his face, and the unmistakable burn behind his eyes. And the thick cock pushing past his unresisting lips.</p><p> </p><p>They don’t come easy, tears, but they can just as well be forced.</p><p> </p><p>And Jonny ensures that quite diligently, indeed, the pressure of his hands swiftly reversing once Brian’s got Tim’s throat seated on his cock, his palms heavy, pushing at the nape of Tim’s skull. Holding him there, and only as cruel as Tim wants.</p><p> </p><p>Which is a fucking lot, in fact, and no sooner has he stopped gagging around Brian than does Jonny pull him back, a torturous glide of spasming muscle around slick silicon, and a sob spills unbidden from Tim’s tongue before he can do better for it. </p><p> </p><p>“Tell us to stop,” Brian says, airily, like it’s some sort of private joke.</p><p> </p><p>Reaching down, he grazes his thumb over Tim’s damp cheek. “You’re a mess, love. You can’t possibly want this.”</p><p> </p><p>Which cuts worse than the burn in his throat, and Tim shakes his head, a wobbly refusal of what are only platitudes (he knows) but in the moment, the scene, it’s so very, harshly real. He does want this, fucking <em> needs </em> it. Needs to cry around Brian’s cock, needs Jonny to keep him there. Needs to know how good it is to let others break his limits for him.</p><p> </p><p>He should still answer, of course. They won’t continue unless he checks in (a somewhat regrettable foresight in their negotiations), and he manages a commendable gasp as Jonny wrenches his head back.</p><p> </p><p>“Use your fucking words,” as much threat as it is concern from the mate as he sneers at Tim.</p><p> </p><p>“Use me,” Tim murmurs in kind, his eyes falling shut. Spilling over, aflame.</p><p> </p><p>He drowsily drags them open enough to catch Brian’s serene smile, hears Jonny exhale a heavy breath. Then Tim’s being maneuvered forward again, this time with Brian’s freezing hand to soothe the fevered sweat on his brow, brushing aside what strands Jonny hasn’t twisted in his fist.</p><p> </p><p>“Will you stop crying, love?” This, asked without expectation.</p><p> </p><p>And so, “No,” because the only thing left as his, alone, is honesty, himself bared to wonderful, thorough cruelty. Asked and earned and executed with such judicious precision, he can’t escape the cavalcade of sensation in all its sharp procession. Through his pulse as it winds tight around his wrists, his shaking thighs because he’s disallowed to sit back on his heels completely. Atop his skin where its been marred over by so many bruises, nightshade blooming out beneath pale flesh. Between his legs, as steel caps insinuate themselves, grinding up and kicking loose a groan from his ribs. Jonny’s never been one for subtlety. Or patience.</p><p> </p><p>And then, of course, his face, cherished by Brian, with his fingertips beneath Tim’s eyes, stroking the implacable shadows, their traversal aided by a steady rush of tears.</p><p> </p><p>“Good,” he says, and Tim—his head so much of cotton to blunt the serration of his thoughts—believes nothing else.</p><p> </p><p>He must prove this, of course. Earn it. And Jonny is still there to aid him, to keep him correct and obedient. </p><p> </p><p>Pushing. Guiding. <em> Forcing</em>. Till Tim’s jaw aches once more around Brian’s cock, and air fails to fill his parched lungs. With it, the tears turn black, fizzy and ticklish, spots and flashes. Then Jonny pulls, and Tim breathes. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a short lived affair, the bliss of oxygen, as Jonny works his boot up, dragging hard against the inseam of Tim’s trousers, and the man cries meekly, a wounded animal sound of relief, and as he bears down on Jonny, the mate shoves him forward in tandem, so Tim’s moans stifle short as his mouth’s speared through again. </p><p> </p><p>He’s not put out, far from it, swallowing diligently, daring to move of his own accord, or perhaps he just imagines that. Jonny is, after all, utterly assiduous in these endeavors, and when too heavy a sob breaks in Tim’s chest, throwing him askew of his deference, Jonny’s there to keep him on track.</p><p> </p><p>Pushing, pulling, fucking Tim’s mouth along Brian’s cock, each point of contact dredging up more and more tears, emptying him out as he’s filled in all the ways he’s learned are just as hollow as anything else, but at least there’s pleasure at the end—a snap of synapse and ever so fleeting, but still something amidst the nothing-at-all.</p><p> </p><p>Which also arrives sans his will, a rough, trembling orgasm torn out of him by Jonny’s boot, and the tears come only ever harder. </p><p> </p><p>And now it’s two sets of hands in his hair, his throat clicking wetly as speed and carelessness race together, Brian proving just as indifferent as Jonny which… </p><p> </p><p>It’s good, in its twisted way. It’s good for Tim to be only a thing in their possession. They hurt him like he needs, and only go too far when he asks. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t, and not for the cock lodged rhythmically in his throat. Simply, he just doesn’t, and might feel guilty for it were he inclined, but he’s hazy from his climax, weeping softer now, growing boneless, till Jonny’s the only thing keeping him upright. And no longer by the hair, either, his calloused hands curled from Tim’s temples to the hinge of his jaw. Pushing. Pulling.</p><p> </p><p>“Let me see him,” said like he’s not even there, really, not present enough to give even a bit of dignity to, though Brian’s gaze is more than appraising as Jonny lets go, lets Tim sink himself down the whole of Brian’s cock. Staying put there, sweetly choking.</p><p> </p><p>“What would you think, love,” Brian asks. “If you could see yourself, what would you think?”</p><p> </p><p>Three, blistering trails score down Tim’s cheeks, nestling under his chin before dripping to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“Because I think you’re very beautiful,” Brian continues. “Especially like this.”</p><p> </p><p>Which has nothing to do with the obscenity of his mouth, he knows. Has everything to do with the shining of his red rimmed eyes, the drying tracks along his cheeks. Yes, he supposes he can be beautiful like this. And what a mercy he does not have to admit to it, either.</p><p> </p><p>That’s what Brian is for. Jonny, too, in his less discerning way.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think you can give us a little more tonight?”</p><p> </p><p>Which is a stupid question that has no answer. Or, rather has already been answered before this. They do not stop until he can cry no further. And, if it’s all amenable, they won’t stop even then. </p><p> </p><p>But of course Brian asks it anyway, because that’s who he is in this. And of course Jonny pulls him back, because that’s his role.</p><p> </p><p>And so Tim must gasp, “<em>Yes</em>,” ruining what little breath he’s given, but that’s not what’s important, not what he can give them most of all. Not who he is in these agonizing hours.</p><p> </p><p>Because he’s still searing behind the eyes, and the night is very young. </p><p> </p><p>So, again, “Yes,” just in case they don’t believe him. </p><p> </p><p>“Lovely thing,” Brian sighs, ever so fond, ever so mean as he deigns to be the one to guide Tim back onto his cock.</p><p> </p><p>Jonny rejoins in due course, but for the seconds being, Tim relishes the singularity of Brian’s auspices. </p><p> </p><p>It will be some time until Tim is sated, of course, and he once feared such incompletion, but not once has he been left to himself in such a state. These are promises kept in the palms that hold him, hurt him, guide him, soothe him. And they return to him, taking stock, leaving remedy in their wake. And he cries unbidden. And for it, he is still so beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>And for them, he cries quietly his gratitude.</p><p> </p><p>And in their hands like alms, they hold his tears, and do not let fall a single, scorching drop.</p>
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